


under these stones

by parcequelle



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, F/M, Huddling For Warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22576771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: She laughs, then, and Tom feels the same stupid thrill of pride and success he always feels at having caused it.
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/Tom Paris
Comments: 20
Kudos: 62





	under these stones

The snow glitters salmon-coloured and pure in the waning light, and it would be beautiful if it weren’t also thigh-deep – waist-deep on Janeway – and sharp as knives against their all-weather boots. They press on through its unforgiving coldness, teeth chattering and legs numb, because they can finally see the cave they have been striving to reach for the past three hours. It’s a small blessing that their tricorders are still working; Tom’s phaser has already died, sucked dry of juice by the blizzard that lost them out here in the first place, and the captain’s is blinking its red warning light where it’s fixed in her glove-clad hand, melting the ice ahead of them, bit by bit.

Janeway’s head is angled down against the blustering wind, but she forges on as though she hasn’t even noticed. Tom tightens his hood around his face, adjusts his pack on his shoulders, and follows her lead.

They reach the cave within the hour, using fallen trees to hoist each other out and over and into the welcoming, yawning mouth of rock. Tom has his tricorder out before they’re even inside, and he actually grins when he sees the results of his scan. ‘Still no signs of humanoid life… no predators… the metonite deposits in the rock are interfering a bit, but I’m only reading sporadic, unsophisticated life signs.’ He looks up. ‘My credits are on alien rodents.’

‘Mine too,’ the captain says, and smiles at him through grey-blue lips and too-pale skin. ‘Let’s go in a little deeper, beyond that bend, hmm? I want to get out of this wind.’

‘No arguments here.’ Tom activates his wrist lamp and follows her deeper down the twisting corridors; it grows darker and cooler the deeper they go, but it’s still a hell of a lot more pleasant than being outside.

‘Here,’ Janeway says, when they reach a rounded, low-ceilinged dead end that is smaller and warmer than any area they’ve found so far. ‘Do you still have those branches we collected earlier?’

Tom swings his pack off his shoulder and rummages through it, tossing out water bottles, ration packs, survival blankets, an extra torch, and finally, the handful of broken branches. He grimaces as he arranges them into a small, makeshift campfire. ‘Not sure how well they’ll catch.’

‘They’ll have to do. How about kindling?’

‘We can use hair in a pinch, right?’

Janeway raises an eyebrow. ‘Whose hair, Mr Paris?’

‘Yours, obviously.’ He pats a hand to his wool-covered scalp, grinning. ‘I’m kinda running low.’

She laughs, then – indulgently, good-naturedly – and Tom feels the same stupid thrill of pride and success he always feels at having caused it.

‘I saw some moss on the cave walls a little farther back,’ he offers. ‘I’ll go see if it’s dry, bring some back.’

‘Sounds g-good,’ she says. Now that the adrenaline of getting here has worn off, her teeth are clattering in her mouth like horses’ hooves. ‘I’ll use the time to get out of these clothes.’

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay? Yell if you need me.’ 

He runs.

*

Dry moss collected, he returns to find her crouched on the floor in dry pants and a still-sodden jacket. He sits beside her, slips two handfuls of moss between the branches, and uses the last of his phaser’s power to light the fire – it catches immediately, slow but steady where he pokes it into obedience with his knife – and then he turns to Janeway and frowns. ‘You’re still wet,’ he says.

She glares at him. ‘Your observation skills are exceptional, Mr Paris.’

He studies her, and for a moment, he forgets that she is his idol, the commanding officer who has ensured his loyalty for life, and just sees a small, shivering person in need of a dozen hearty meals free of leola root. ‘You’ll get hypothermia,’ he says sternly, or as sternly as he can when he can’t feel his lips. ‘Take off your jacket and wrap up in a blanket.’

‘Are you giving me orders, Lieutenant?’

‘If you were in my position, would you let a crewmember risk freezing to death out of stubbornness? No, you wouldn’t. So with all due respect, Captain: strip.’

Maybe he only says it because brain freeze has relieved him of his senses; maybe he only says it because he knows both phasers are out of power and even she would find it hard to murder him with numb hands. Whatever the reason, he does say it, and she glares at him so hard he thinks she might be moving him backwards with her mind, but then she sighs, and it’s a rattling, hollow thing. ‘ _Fine_ ,’ she says. ‘But if you think I’ll tolerate that tone from you ever again, Mr Paris, then you are sorely mistaken. Clear?’

‘Crystal, ma’am.’ He holds out his arms to take the jacket from her, then turns around while she removes the rest of her clothes. He can hear the way the wet fabric squelches against her skin as she lifts the shirt and undershirt over her head, and he winces; he’s not exactly toasty himself, right now, but at least his shirts and jacket stayed dry. There must have been a rip or something in hers, to let the water in. This Starfleet gear is supposed to be impenetrable, all-weather-proof even on alien worlds.

‘All right,’ she says stiffly, a minute later. ‘You can turn back.’

She looks even smaller, like this; hair a mess, silver survival blanket wrapped around her thin shoulders, her feet almost comical in overlarge boots. He wants to pull her into his arms and never let go.

Boiling water and heating rations make for a good distraction, and they are silent as she watches him, both of them sitting as close to the fire as they dare. Now and then, he flicks his gaze over to check how she’s doing, and he’s pleased to see that between the warm blanket and the hot cup of coffee in her hands, colour is starting to shift back into her cheeks. He knew he’d been right to bring that extra thermos.

‘We should contact the ship,’ she says, when she’s finished her rations and Tom is tossing more moss on the fire. The branches are burning down fast, and he doubts he’ll be able to find more dry ones outside the cave. He decides not to mention it; there’s no chance she hasn’t noticed. ‘Let them know we made it here safely.’

He bites down the urge to say, _Barely,_ and nods. ‘Good idea.’

It takes a few tries for them to get Tuvok, but it isn’t good news; _Voyager_ can’t risk using the transporter during the blizzard, and they can only set down a shuttle four kilometres out, so the second away team will have to hike.

‘Lieutenant Ayala, Ensign Kim and I are currently in the shuttlebay, engaging pre-flight. We estimate eleven hours in reaching you, Captain, but rest assured that we will waste no time.’

Janeway smiles at the commbadge in her hand. ‘I don’t doubt it, Tuvok.’

‘I recommend that you and Lieutenant Paris remain sheltered and warm, and do not attempt to leave the cave. I trust you have sufficient rations?’

‘We do,’ she says. ‘We’ve just had some dinner.’

‘Very well,’ Tuvok says. ‘Take care of yourself, Captain.’

‘You too.’

When she clicks off, Tom turns to her and grins. ‘Was that Vulcan for “do as you’re told”?’

Janeway laughs. ‘It sure was.’

*

It isn’t much longer before their fire dies an honourable, natural death. The cool of the night has already drawn Tom and Janeway closer together, but they’ll freeze without the flames and both of them know it. In the end, Tom doesn’t even have to brave the awkward questions himself; he looks over at Janeway, ready to argue his point, and she says, ‘Come on over, Mr Paris. We’re going to huddle.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Tom says. He thinks about standing, realises that would be weird, and just shuffles over to where she’s sitting instead. ‘How do you want me?’ She shoots him a look, and he winces. ‘Sorry, that… came out wrong.’

She rolls her eyes, but a smile is threatening the corners of her lips. ‘Lie down,’ she says, gesturing to where she’s placed the second survival blanket beside the dying fire. ‘Away from the wall – the rock is chilly. We’ll be better off if we stay here.’

‘Sure,’ he says.

He lies down, unzips his jacket, and opens his arms. She turns her back and spoons against him, bending her knees into his, and he wraps his jacket around as much of her body as he can reach. She’s still wrapped up in the survival blanket, clutching it to her chest, and he does his best to cover that part of her even more before he carefully enfolds her into his arms and draws her against him. She shifts around for a moment, settling her head on his bicep, and then she settles, but he can feel that she’s still tense.

He’s still tense, too. He draws in a long, deep breath and lets it out slowly, relaxing his muscles against her and hoping she’ll follow suit; it takes time, but she eventually does. He feels the moment she loses it, that tightness, exchanging it for a pliancy that relieves him – he couldn’t stand the thought of her lying here, uncomfortable or unsafe, for however long it takes the away team to find them. 

‘Okay?’ he asks, soft because his mouth is right next to her ear.

‘Yes,’ she murmurs. She draws him arms tighter around her and then buries her hands within his – those hands are so thin, so elegant, that one of his could dwarf her entire fist. ‘Thank you, Tom.’

‘What for?’ he asks, surprised. ‘For my handful of sticks? Or my thrilling companionship?’

She snorts, and he feels the sharp rise and fall of her chest against his hand. ‘For making this easier than it could have been,’ she says. Then, ‘And for the sticks.’

He chuckles against the warm, salt-scented back of her neck and says, ‘You’re welcome, Captain. Anytime.’

He pulls the sides of the blanket around them, cocoons them inside, and closes his eyes.

*

When the away team comes for them, hours later, they’re both asleep. Janeway has shifted position during the night, seeking warmth, and is lying chest-to-chest with Tom, her face wedged into his neck. Tom’s arms are wrapped tightly around her, and their blanket cocoon has served to keep the worst of the cold at bay. He wakes to Harry frowning down at him, pressing a hypospray to his neck, and then grinning when Tom says, ‘Wow, Doc, you sure grew that hair real fast.’

Janeway is already extricating herself from Tom’s hold, all business as she tugs on a new, dry jacket and demands answer after answer of Tuvok. Tom stands and redresses, too, and then they pack up their supplies and get going in record time because the weather has finally started to let up, but it won’t last.

‘After you, gentleman,’ Janeway says. She’s had a few hyposprays, too; she still looks exhausted, but the colour is back in her cheeks, and her energy is high considering the day they had. Tom turns away to follow the others, but Janeway stops him, a hand on his arm. ‘Tom,’ she says, softly. ‘Are you all right?’ 

She could be asking after his health, if he’s tired or hungry or thirsty or feeling faint, but he knows that she isn’t. Briefly, bravely, he presses his hand against hers on his arm, and he smiles. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Never better.’

She smiles.


End file.
